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13 June 2011

Popocatepetl

Popocatepetl is breathing firesending ash over the broken back of the cityand a rumbling underneath that nobody notices.The people know a thing or two about disasters,natural or otherwise.

The square is always full of tarps and banners,smoke rising from old cookstoves,the smell of unwashed bodies and tortillas.Teachers and truck drivers have comefrom homes far away to camp herein the shadow of Parliament on the hard stones.

!El pueblo unido, jamás será vencido!they shout over and over as they march.The people! United! Will never be defeated!They set up camp that spills out over the squarelike the contents of a drawer overturned.Defiant and tired, they lay their heads downon the cobbles and listen for rumblings.

It’s only smoke and ash, there is no molten rivercoursing down the mountain to purifyeverything in its path. The tarps gather dustand soot, tourists and businessmen walk bywithout a glance. Nothing changesuntil the rains come and wash a trailon their faces like tears and turn the ash to mud.